The Sandbaggers
by Porcia
Summary: England and the United States share a new enemy. Two young stubborn and arrogant agents are paired up. Are they helping the world find salvation? Or finding salvation in each other? This is no James Bond flick... no gadgets will save them.


I didn't talk to anyone else. It isn't anything new. It's not like I hate everyone, like I detest other people. No, far from it. I just couldn't afford to get too close.

I am the world's greatest actress, the world's most underrated liar. I walk down the street, and no one sees me. I have nothing. I have no roots. No family. I am so small. Insignificant. I am merely a piece of the puzzle... I am told where to fit, and I fit. I do what I am told to do, and I say what I have been trained to say.

My mother was British royalty, that is, until she met my father. Charlie Swan, good ol' boy from the States. But my father wasn't just a plain ol' American boy... He was a secret ops agent. C.I.A. Secret Agent. _The American James Bond._ He was meant to protect her, somehow. But things didn't happen that way. Somehow, I happened. The illegitimate love child. The stain on Britain's white dress. My mother, Renee, was ostracized. My father was not-so-honorably discharged. My birth was kept hidden. And three months after I was born, my parents were killed.

Or so the story goes. I find it hard to believe that my father, a trained killer, wasn't able to defend himself, or my mother from a drugged up pick pocket with a gun.

I was ripped away from whatever I could possibly have had. My mother's family never contacted me. Never fought for me. My mother was buried next to my father in the public cemetery. No royal funeral for her. Everything was wiped clear from the history books. I became just _someone_. No one of interest.

So my training began. Someone cared enough, or knew enough, not to let me fall to the streets. I was shipped off to the States, where I was raised by a CIA operative. I was to become a weapon. Phil Dwyer was a good man, never there, but there enough. I was his job, and Phil Dwyer never failed.

I was raised to disregard human emotion, to forgo whatever childhood I should want. Phil was the closest thing to a father that I had, I couldn't remember a moment where he hadn't been there. And so I came to him, only 3 months old, and left him at the age of 17 to attend MIT, where my mind was transformed into one of the most on point, advanced machines in the world. I guess most people don't understand the implications of an agent; sure, there's the physical aspect, there's what spy movies glorify: the ass kicking. But the most important thing, above anything else, is the mind. How smart you are directly affects your survival. The math, the arithmetic properties of life.

I've only ever done what I've been taught... To survive. I had no choice.

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4:35 am.

I'm up.

4:43 am.

My stuff is packed, I'm dressed, and I'm heading out the door of the hotel room, ready to receive my new assignment.

4:58 am.

By the waterfront, downtown London. God, I hate London.

I walk up to the bench. The one that headquarters told me to find. I sit, and I wait. I always wait.

To my left, an old posh woman walking some ridiculous dog. She's no threat. Further along, to my right, a bunch of drunk kids are kicking over trash bins, throwing glass bottles into the river. They're loud and obnoxious, and I'm sure that their parents are worried, but they're not my problem.

I hear shuffling behind me. I sit up straight. I listen as they approach. The footsteps are strong, equal, well-paced. Another agent?

A throat clears behind me, and a hand is placed on my shoulder.

I don't react.

"Isabella, stand up and follow me on a walk." It's Reilly. My MI6 contact. I stand up, dusting imaginary dust off my dark jeans.

I don't look at him, I merely walk beside him, still keeping aware of our surroundings.

"Isabella, we have something new, very new, for you, my darling." He's a sweet old man, he's what I've imagined my grandfather to resemble. If only I didn't know that he was, in fact, an asshole.

"You're a special case, Isabella. You're one of ours, too. Your lineage cannot be ignored. You're an important part of Britannia, and we're glad to have you back." He strings out. What is this? Why all the compliments? Why am I being buttered up?

"You see... we need to work with you. Something that both your boss and I share a common interest in." He hands me an envelope.

"Reilly, what's going on?" I finally ask. Unsure if I really want to know.

"Isabella, you'll be working with my best agent. I expect this to go well." He finishes quickly.

"No, Reilly, I don't do that. I work alone." I try to make myself clear. Partnerships never work for me. The men treat me like an inferior _woman_, and the women grind my gears with their inability to focus. It's as though that being partnered up with another woman gave her permission to chat about makeup with me. Sure, I wear makeup, but this is a _job_, not a salon.

"Well I'm sorry Isabella, but this is not negotiable. This is your job. Do you wish to quit?" My eyes find his. He isn't going to budge. The determination in his eyes is evident. I look away, understanding his point loud and clear.

"Fine." I surrender.

"Very well, dear." He hands me another envelope before leaning towards me, kissing my cheek.

"You be good, darling, and for the love of God, be safe!" He warns me before walking away.

I look down at the two envelope in my hands.

Shit.


End file.
